


the beginning of forever

by oculata



Series: the beginning of forever [16]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (partial) Kid Fic, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Canon Compliant Misogyny, Continuation of Vows, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just Married, M/M, Post-Finale, Retrospective, poetic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oculata/pseuds/oculata
Summary: Mickey and Ian have come a long way to be where they are today.+Incredibleaccompanying artwork created byMonkey.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: the beginning of forever [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524932
Comments: 18
Kudos: 220





	the beginning of forever

**Author's Note:**

>   
> thank you to the lovely [Monkey](http://eightmonkeys.tumblr.com/) for drawing this incredible accompanying artwork.
> 
> thank you to the ever talented Rider for being my encouraging beta.
> 
> this is the final installment to this series! happy wedding :)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_clennam)

There was something about Mickey Milkovich that made Ian Gallagher feel like he was on fire.

It started off small—on the first day of third grade—with but a tiny flicker of a match gliding along the lengths of the long nerves in his legs. It was a gentle pressure, but it was still more than enough to warm him and give him a constant reminder of what was before him.

He was enamored by his table mate straight away, staring at him as covertly as possible when the boy was looking away, trying to memorize his bluntly cut black hair and puffy cheeks. Ian couldn’t think of any other words that described him other than _pretty_. So he kept looking while the boy was facing away and sneaking glances when he wasn’t. When neither option was viable, he kept his eyes fixed on his lap so he could watch the boy’s legs bounce around under the table, some sort of energy catapulting them off the floor and refusing to let them be still for longer than a second.

Ian forgot where he was until the sound of shuffling papers and unzipping backpacks knocked him from his reverie. He scanned the room in a panic, noticing that all of his classmates were retrieving their pencils and that the teacher was circling around the room with a stack of papers in hand. Ian threw his hands onto his backpack and watched the boy across from him under the table, noting that the boy seemed to not move at all. Ian knit his brows in confusion but started scouring through his backpack anyway.

Then the realization hit him: he hadn’t packed a pencil. Fiona had tried to find an implement or two for him, but it seemed like the entire house was devoid of any writing utensils. She promised him that she would look and figure something out, but evidently, she forgot, and now Ian was without a pencil for the first day of school. He sat up, and as he was trying to figure out what to do, some force overcame him. Before he knew it, he had turned to his table mate and was blurting out the first sentence he would ever say to the love of his life:

“Hi. Do you have a pencil I can use?”

The boy turned and pinned him with a severe look. That was the first time Ian was able to actually see more than half of his face, and he felt the gentle heat in his legs rise into his torso. Pretty felt far too weak of a descriptor—he had the loveliest blue eyes and the sweetest caramel-colored freckles all over his face that even stippled his ears. Though he was practically throwing knives into Ian’s face with his stare, Ian knew he was nothing short of magnificent.

“I’ll stab you if you talk to me again,” he said, looking at Ian for a few more tense seconds before returning his attention to the front of the room.

Ian deflated and shrunk into his seat, locking his knees together and folding his hands in his lap. The boy’s legs kept bouncing about in his peripheral vision, and he felt the hotness of shame curl up around his ears and trickle onto his face. Hurting the boy made him feel absolutely dreadful, and Ian was near tears when the flailing energy dancing in the corner of his vision slowed until it stopped. He heard a sigh, and when he looked up, the boy was leaning over and shuffling through the stretched out plastic bag that was slumped next to his chair. Ian assumed that was his backpack.

His shirt was too small on him, which Ian was a bit perplexed by because the boy was already small as is. As he was leaned over, the shirt rode up his side, and Ian could see bruises in various stages of their life cycles—some were paper thin and yellow and had begun fading into his complexion, while others were deep, angry, purple welts that were scattered across his skin like a disease. The air flowing in Ian’s lungs went still.

Eventually, the boy rose back up, and his shirt obscured his bruises once again. He rolled a short pencil across the table in Ian’s direction. Ian looked at him, down his face and onto as much of his chest as the shirt’s yawning collar would allow him—no marks.

“Thanks,” Ian mumbled and gingerly took the pencil in hand.

“Yeah.”

The teacher slid a sheet onto each of their work stations. Ian leaned over the paper and began to scrawl his name onto the top of the page, but the boy didn’t move—he just fixed his gaze onto the front of the room and started bouncing his legs again.

Ian sat up and looked at him. “Um. I’m Ian.”

The boy turned and scanned Ian’s body, seemingly deciding if divulging the same intimate information was a safe choice. His jaw dropped open a little as he took in a breath to form his response and his tense shoulders slackened.

“Mickey.”

Ian nodded. Mickey seemed satisfied enough with that response, and so he turned back to face the front of the room. Ian looked at him for a little while longer, blinked, and then returned to his worksheet—thankfully, unscathed. 

He didn’t see Mickey too consistently after that—it seemed like he went to school just enough to not have administration breathing down his neck about expulsion. Even when Mickey did come, he was hardly ever in the classroom, and he would almost always leave before lunch ended, which meant that Ian could never quite get to him in time to try and spark a conversation. But he wasn’t too sure if Mickey would want to talk to him, anyway.

When he joined Little League and realized Mickey was on the team, he was more excited than words could describe. But, again, nothing ever clicked well enough for them to actually speak—either Mickey would be roughhousing with his friends or he’d look so detached from everything happening around him that Ian wasn’t sure if the boy would even hear his words if he spoke to him. By the time the season had calmed down a bit and their team had gotten used to the routine of it all, Mickey pissed on first base and was subsequently kicked off the team.

Then, Ian didn’t see him much until he popped back up around high school in odd intervals. Even so, he never forgot the boy who made him feel so warm.

* * *

What was it that kept Mickey's fingers glued to the merchandise lining the shelves of the Kash and Grab? Why did he find himself, day in and day out, scouting the perimeter, trying to memorize and predict the habits of the lanky redhead who buzzed about inside?

Neither boy knew, but they both noticed the developing and slowly cementing trend. Mickey kept rotating through the store, eyes open for snacks and a certain head of shaggy red hair bouncing between the aisles. Then he got bolder.

It wasn't for many years until the day came where Mickey finally figured out why he was so intent on being a menace at that shitty store. It was so obvious that he wanted to knock himself on the head for not realizing it sooner. The answer lay in the moment where every nerve in his body stitched together as he hurled out at Ian, with an expert air of nonchalance:

“You know where I live if you have a problem.”

He should've just said “come to my house and fuck me into my bed”—it was practically the same fucking thing.

* * *

It was weird being with him again, especially in a way that Ian had only dreamt of. But he wasn’t dreaming because there he was—looking gorgeous with his pale skin glowing from the moonlight pouring in through the chain link fence and his lips looking as pillowy as anything. 

And something in the ambiance felt different, too. Perhaps it was the cover of night or the seclusion of the dugout that made the space between them milder, but whatever the cause was, the effects of it were certainly there, dancing through the air as it pulled the two partners closer together by the force of its intimate imagined melody. Their shoulders were touching, and Mickey was kicking around the dirt with his dilapidated shoes, but neither man moved away from the other.

“Still didn’t answer my question,” Ian uttered once the silence became unbearable.

“What question?”

“If you made friends in there.”

Mickey laughed and descended back into silence. When he felt Ian’s intense stare boring into his profile, he turned his head around to look at him. “Oh, you were serious?”

“Yeah,” Ian confirmed with a chuckle and an eyeroll.

“Nah, not really,” Mickey rasped, lighting another cigarette and bringing it to his lips. “Pretty much everybody in there is just some dumbass who ain’t old enough to be in the gang that his cool, murderer big brother’s in. Talk up a big game but freak out real quick when they get empty threats. Tiring as fuck to be around, much less talk to.”

“Could make some connections,” Ian joked.

Mickey snorted, almost choking on the smoke in his lungs. “Doubt it.”

Then it was quiet again, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. They stood there, taking in each other’s existences and finding tranquility in the fact that they were near each other again. Though they were not yet at a point where they could be candid about their feelings and intentions for the little relationship they were building, each man silently reached the same conclusion: it was nice to miss someone and be missed back.

It scared them both that they were falling in so deep. They both knew it was happening, and they both knew it was impossible to stop. Mickey flicked the cigarette, and Ian watched the pellets of ash float through the air in between them like fireflies.

“You up for round three?” Mickey asked, his voice sounding gentle and almost timid, as opposed to how it was dripping with lust barely half an hour ago.

“Yeah,” Ian responded, matching Mickey’s tone.

That time, it was a lot slower. Ian still kept his fingers twisted in Mickey’s hair and had his other hand on a hip, but those signs of roughness and aggression were only there out of habit—a fear of breaking normalcy and admitting that their relations were progressing into something deeper and more intimate than either of them had ever expected. Normalcy was comfortable; it was easy. Normalcy was a frozen stasis, chucked into an ice box to be forgotten about until it became icy and visibly impenetrable.

“Fuck,” Mickey moaned out, tears clouding his voice.

Normalcy was also deliquescent, and Ian liked to melt until he burned.

* * *

One time—a very long time ago—Mickey Milkovich, the hardened thug and general imposing force who seemed to lack any emotions other than annoyance and anger, decided to fall in love.

Falling in love didn’t _make_ him softhearted, though, as one would be led to believe. Rather, it came from the fact that he finally had the opportunity to be gentle, caring, and solicitous in a private enough way. He was comfortable with showing that side of him to one person. It was peaceful being able to not run at one hundred and ten percent all the time anymore. He'd found a secluded little part of the world that was meant for only him and his love; where they could giggle and playfully shove each other around before the intimacy of it all got to them and they began drowning each other in affection. And maybe, one day, they could do something else like hold hands or maybe kiss. He wanted to kiss Ian—on his mouth and up and down his throat and all over his chest. It was all tucked away in a distant, fuzzy someday, and it had been since Mickey came to terms with the fact that he had feelings for Ian.

But perhaps someday had come.

He was distracted, and he could tell that Ian noticed. Mickey's fingernails were developing a new, sharp point each second, and his speech towards his family members who were bumbling in the back was terse and impatient. He was looking dead ahead, staring at the road but hardly processing it, but Ian’s twitchy body language was impossible to ignore. He kept jumping in his seat and constantly loosening then tightening his grip on the steering wheel, as if the surface would burn him if he dawdled on it too long.

Mickey was quiet other than the occasional grunt of acknowledgement when his brothers asked some nonsensical question at him, but with every noise he made, he saw Ian settle down little by little. Evidently, Ian was just as worried about mucking up whatever was blossoming between them as Mickey was, and any reassurance that Mickey was still present with him in the moment brought him some ease.

“Yeah, Rosie gives some good fuckin’ head; does some shit with her tongue that no other bitch I’ve been with been able to figure out,” Iggy remarked.

“Whatever. Her loose pussy ain’t worth it anymore since Maurice upped fuckin’ everything. You been there lately, Mickey?” Colin asked as he leaned forward and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Think it’s a load of bullshit.”

Mickey could see Ian shift around in his seat out of the corner of his eye.

“Never wasted my money by goin’ there in the first place,” Mickey huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose because he swore he was getting lightheaded by just listening to these idiots take up the oxygen in the van. The breath of relief that Ian exhaled floated over to him.

Colin leaned back into his seat. “Still a load of bullshit.”

They finally pulled up to Ned’s residence, and the boys began to walk towards the property after some last-minute changes to their plan. They successfully jimmied the lock on the door, and Mickey took ten steps in before he was already turning around and announcing his departure to his prowling brothers.

“Where the fuck you goin’?” Iggy shout-whispered at him.

“Somewhere where I don’t gotta listen to you two try to talk and breathe at the same time. Go look through the china cabinet,” Mickey said, flicking a finger in the direction of where he could see it peering out from around the wall. The brothers shrugged at each other but complied with the orders without further question.

He jogged out and was on Ian’s lips in a flash, so quickly and softly that, had Ian not kept his eyes peeled open for that second before he succumbed to the tender affection, he would have believed it to be a dream. Hell, even with full cognizance he could feel the awe, shock, and joy blast across his countenance as he watched Mickey run back into the house, giving him the finger as he did. It felt like pins were stuck in the corners of his mouth, keeping his smile high and taut as he recalled the fleeting feeling of Mickey’s lips on his and just how right it all felt.

He raised his hand to his mouth and dragged his fingertips across his lips, feeling how the thin coat of Mickey’s saliva made them slip around. He couldn’t believe that Mickey had kissed him. There was a heat on his mouth and in his chest that was blazing through his being and making his heart race so fast that he was worried it would burst out of him.

He absolutely, honestly, truly couldn’t believe that Mickey had kissed him.

Mickey couldn't believe it either.

* * *

It eviscerated him to see Ian like that; how the cool lights above drowned out the rest of the life in him. He danced on that nameless man who was feeding him pills looking cold and hollow, and Mickey could feel a piece of his heart crack off and thunk onto the floor.

“Time’s up, love birds,” Mickey said, shoving the predator Ian was sat on. “Get up.”

Ian looked at him with more life in his eyes than there had been in months. Mickey could almost see the dormant butterflies in Ian’s stomach flutter awake again, pushing him back up and off the predator with a sharp movement.

“That means get the fuck up!” He grabbed the man and flung him off the couch. “It’s my turn.”

Mickey was then shoved down onto the couch, and Ian climbed onto his lap. Mickey touched Ian for the briefest moment when his turn began—an accidental, gentle brush against his thigh—and the skin felt cool and lifeless. He jerked his hand away, missing how that little piece of Ian subsequently burned back to life.

He didn’t know what to do after he left the club except for loiter around outside until Ian eventually had to come out. It was very cold outside, and he kept hopping in place in an attempt to keep his blood from freezing in his veins. He just wanted to see Ian again and ensure his safety. He wasn’t sure where Ian was sleeping or if he was really sleeping at all—it seemed like he spent all night in that club choking on pills, gyrating his hips mindlessly, and being taken advantage of by predators. But he had to leave at some point, Mickey reasoned, so he waited outside as the cold air seeped in through the pores of his clothes and chilled his bones, keeping his eyes glued to the club’s exit.

After a lifetime, he watched Ian trip out of the club in the clutches of some degenerate who was smearing his dirty hands all over his stomach and sides, a black tongue licking up his temple as he oscillated through consciousness. As Ian nearly tumbled out of the creep’s grip, Mickey ran up, shoved him off of Ian, and began choking him with his scarf, spitting poisonous words in his face.

The tension of the situation dissipated, and the next image that assaulted Mickey’s eyes was one of Ian’s limp body being cradled by the dirty snow. He looked so cold and felt even colder when Mickey knelt down, worry absolutely wrecking the stability of his mind, and gently nudged him around. Ian didn’t move at all, so Mickey settled on slinging the man over his shoulders and walking like that all the way home. Then the Uber Ian ordered arrived.

He climbed into the backseat, and with some impeccable maneuvering, made it so that Ian was laying across the backseat, head resting in Mickey’s lap. 

He barely seemed alive—he didn’t even seem to be asleep. He possessed more features of someone who was comatose rather than someone who was recuperating. His arms were so limp and thin-looking, and his skin had an odd translucent sheen that made it appear tight against his muscles and bones. The traces of body glitter sprinkled over him made him have the same allure of some twisted science experiment—there to be gawked and prodded at, but not to become something human and personal. He was becoming something cut down and less sentient by the pills and cocks that ravaged him.

Mickey gently placed his hand on Ian’s head and began running his palm across the silky locks. In the club, his hair looked as fiery as ever under the lies of those bright lights that tried impossibly hard to make him look older and sexier—to disguise the true nature of the scared, lost boy he really was. But in the car, with only the illumination of cruddy streetlamps cutting in and out through the window, the color looked dampened like the rest of him. He looked cold, as if the life in him were suspended completely.

Mickey worried Ian would never light up again. He kept sweeping Ian’s hair around, using his fingers to comb back the loose strands that fell over his forehead.

“Is he okay?” the driver uttered suddenly. Mickey looked up and saw the driver’s eyes looking back at him in the rearview mirror.

Mickey pondered the question as he looked down at the boy in his lap. He ghosted his knuckles over Ian’s temple and exhaled a strained breath.

“Don’t really know.”

The driver looked back at the road.

“Put him to bed and feed him hot food,” he suggested after some stuttering.

Mickey sighed and nodded. He resumed stroking Ian’s hair and kept an eye on his body just in case Ian moved or stirred from his sleep. He didn’t, though, and every time something in Mickey’s periphery jostled, fooling him into thinking Ian was waking up, he grew simultaneously angrier and more crushed.

Eventually, they returned to Mickey’s house, and Mickey laid Ian down on his bed and sat nearby. He watched him for hours, waiting for him to thaw out.

* * *

_I just want everybody here to know I’m fucking gay._

The words, though they were born miles away, followed them everywhere.

“Holy fuck, I can’t believe you did that,” Ian breathed out hotly as the memory replayed in his head. He and Mickey tumbled into Mickey’s bedroom, the alcohol crashing in waves against their stomachs’ walls and making their bodies hot to the touch. They barely swung the door closed before they were on each other again, desperate mouths clamoring for the sensation of the other.

“Fuck, me neither,” Mickey practically panted against Ian’s mouth before devouring it once more.

Ian pulled back, leaving a gasping Mickey looking up at him in equal parts confusion and desperation. They were both breathing so hard that Ian could feel the air thickening around them. He placed his fingers on the hinge of Mickey’s jaw and slowly traced them towards his chin, each centimeter he moved causing Mickey’s breath to slow a bit.

He was beautiful, Ian thought. He rubbed his thumb over Mickey’s plush bottom lip, feeling a zap of energy fire through his arm. It was love, what Mickey did—he would have rather risked dying than have Ian think that he didn’t want to be with him. Ian felt something hot and sudden rise up through the soles of his shoes and into his body, rip through his core, and before he knew it, his hungry lips were on Mickey’s neck.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey moaned as the energy in the room picked up again by Ian biting at his neck and shoulder as he surged them towards the bed. 

They fell together onto the mattress. The sheets were freezing from the snow’s chill pressing in through the thin walls, but Mickey rolled them over so he was on top, and Ian could feel the heat from his skin sink into the sheets and pool under him like a bowl of lava.

Mickey began tearing off his layers. Ian sat up so he could do the same, and before long they were quickly back to enveloping each other with their desire. Mickey’s lips on his felt so hot, so consuming, that Ian was worried he would combust. He lightly pushed Mickey off of him, and Mickey took the opportunity to scoot down Ian’s body so he could work at removing his pants.

Ian’s breath picked up again as Mickey crawled up his body and latched onto his mouth. Mickey grabbed at Ian’s hands and flung them against his sides before moving his own to wrap around Ian’s neck. Mickey’s grip was fierce and needy while Ian’s was delicate, as if he was worried that gripping too hard would crack something.

“The fuck?” Mickey panted impatiently as he lifted off, peeking back at where Ian’s hands were loosely placed on him.

Ian’s breath became shaky, shallow, and timid. He looked down at Mickey’s sides and abdomen, and while the skin was clear of discoloration, it still felt wrong to grab Mickey there.

“I—”

“Oh,” Mickey interrupted softly. He unfastened his hands from Ian’s neck. He dropped one hand to lay on Ian’s chest while the other trailed up to play with the wispy hairs along Ian’s hairline.

Ian nodded meekly, and he heard Mickey swallow loudly in response.

They inched together slowly, their eyes seemingly scared to flutter closed until their lips met again. Ian’s hands drifted down to Mickey’s waistline and slowly began dragging his pants down. Once they were off, Mickey started rocking his hips against Ian’s, and Ian’s arms found themselves locked around Mickey’s torso, making it so their bodies were completely flush against each other.

Freedom was not the hot crackle of blazing flames that they expected it to be. Rather, it smoldered with a calculated intent.

* * *

Distance and time should have changed things. It was what Ian expected to happen. And he convinced himself it had because, slowly, the thought of Mickey became less intense and all-consuming. Each successive memory and thought of him settled more into being like a dull ache rather than a striking surge of pain. It should have changed things; everything was supposed to feel different—life was different, mindsets were different. Ian was so sure that he had extinguished whatever it was that made him feel like he was melting when some amorphous memory of Mickey blossomed in his mind.

And yet there he was, looking so different yet making Ian feel so much of the same. 

It was like no time had passed at all. Everything felt the same down to the intensity. Ian could feel something burning the walls of his throat, and his palm and fingertips felt hot from where they’d touched Mickey’s hips and wrapped around his hand. It was so good to feel warm again. Ian hadn’t realized how cold he’d been until he tucked his hand under Mickey’s shirt and pressed his bare chest against Mickey’s clothed back. The heat from Mickey’s skin poured through the fabric and onto Ian, causing Ian to let out a shuddered cry against where he had his face buried in Mickey’s neck.

He heard Mickey exhale a short giggle, and he reached his free hand back to grab at the one Ian had resting on Mickey’s hip.

“Missed you, too,” Mickey exhaled between whimpers. He gripped onto Ian’s hand tightly.

Later that night, once the desperate, passionate fervor of their bodies had dampened and left the two men in a puddle on the floor of the van with their hot breaths making the air between them almost sweltering, Ian decided to talk.

He turned over onto his side, and Mickey looked over at him. Even in the darkness Ian could see how his eyes were wet with an innocent, familiar admiration. No one ever looked at Ian like that—as if he had hung the moon and stars in the sky.

Ian smiled a little before he spoke. “So how’d you get here?”

Mickey laughed. “You really wanna hear about that?” He slid his hand across the floor and rubbed the backs of his fingers against Ian’s wrist.

“What? You don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Nah,” Mickey replied, shaking his head. He turned onto his side so he and Ian were facing each other. “Wanna hear more about you. I did the same shit everyday, but you went out and became an EMT. That sounds way more interesting.”

It was quiet for a little as Mickey kept moving his fingers along Ian’s wrist and raking his eyes over Ian’s chest and collarbones.

Ian arched a brow. “Are you still mad I didn’t wear the uniform?”

“Little bit,” Mickey chuckled, descending into full on laughter when Ian swatted at his hand and side.

“So tell me, man,” Mickey encouraged once the playful in the energy in the car quieted but was not followed by Ian's speech. He nodded at Ian in prompting.

Ian began his spiel, twisting the narrative between other smaller stories and occasionally losing himself in the grand scheme of it all, but he was always able to get back on track because Mickey, without fail, remembered the last train of thought he was on before he dove into a consuming side story. He asked questions that reminded Ian of even more things that he wanted to tell Mickey about, just wanting to listen to the smooth sound of Ian’s voice and reacquaint himself with how Ian spun tales. Ian wasn’t sure how long he had been talking for, but it was long enough for the moon to move from one side of the sky to the other, and Mickey never complained. He just listened with fascination plastered onto his face, tracing his fingertips between Ian’s elbow and Ian’s palm, five little matches blissfully reheating his thawing nerves as his veins sent a burning vehemence to his heart.

* * *

Then he was cold again. Freezing, even. The further from the equator—the further from Mickey—he got, the more he felt that chill once again cool his organs. The bus ride was rather bumpy for most of the way, jostling him about just enough so he could ignore the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. In the odd moments of stillness, Ian kept running his fingers over the lines etched into his palm and up around his knuckles just trying, nearly begging, for his body to somehow remember how it felt when it was against Mickey’s skin.

He tried for hours to make Mickey come back. It seemed as though his brain was trying, too—his mind was drowning in memories of their talks, inside jokes, and laughs, both recent ones and those from years ago. He missed the sound of Mickey’s voice.

( _”Your accent is fucking terrible.”_

_Mickey looked astonished with Ian’s bluntless. “Shit’s not my fuckin’ fault! At least I can halfway speak the damn thing. Unlike this fuckin’ clown next to me who took French for three years and can barely order a sandwich.”_

_“Look at that.” Ian pointed to his phone and angled the screen towards Mickey, unphased by his attack. “Even the Duolingo owl is disappointed in you.”_

_“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey managed in between laughs._ ) 

Ian dropped his head against the window as the remaining flicker of fire in him winked out of existence. His heavy breath clouded the glass, and then the tears began to roll.

Many miles and hours away, Mickey was still driving through Mexico in search of some elusive safehouse, strands of his wig and blurred tears obscuring his sight of the road.

“Fuck,” he kept muttering like it were a chant or spell, as if the word would somehow teleport Ian back into the passenger seat.

The tears were hot as they trickled down his face, collecting at his chin before dropping down to saturate his dress. He kept looking over, expecting and praying to see Ian’s long legs and bony knees jutting into view, but it was always empty. He wanted to pull that fucking seat out from the floor and chuck it out of the goddamn car. By the time he reached his destination, his body was so depleted of energy—from his tightened muscles and ripped apart cells and his toes and fingers that refused to uncurl—that he nearly collapsed onto the dirt when he stepped out from the car.

That night, the town he was staying in hit a record low temperature. He fell asleep huddled into himself and buried under blankets, both his conscious and unconscious mind wondering if Ian was home yet.

* * *

It was like there was a cold front seeping in through the prison walls. Every other prisoner looked fine, and some even had the sleeves cut off their jumpsuits, but Ian was shivering. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining the chill or if everyone but him was accustomed to it, but what he was certain of was that it was going to be a long two years if he couldn’t suck it up.

He just kept walking, feeling mechanical as he traversed the concrete floor, feeling like he was being led by a rope to his death. The prisoners around him—from up above and circling around him—watched him amble with piercing gazes, and he could almost feel his blood cooling as their malevolent expressions and towering physiques boxed him in every way but physically. He ascended the porous steps up to the floor where his cell was, and there was a sudden sea of large, imposing bodies around him. Though no one encroached on him, he bounced back and forth on his feet as he walked, as if the energy of those around him was shoving him around. He tried to remain expressionless and keep himself firmly on the ground until he was tucked away from the commotion of everything else, but it was hard. He could feel the worry seeping onto his face.

Finally he entered his cell, the clamor behind him silencing as the heavy door grated along the floor until it shut. Finally he could exhale the shaky, terrified breath he had been carrying and drop his wooden expression. He took in the room, staring up at the buzzing lights above and the sliver of white light pouring in through the window of the top bunk. He advanced on the beds, dropping his items onto and hovering his forehead over the top bunk’s mattress, staring at the bottom bunk as his reality cemented. He wondered who would occupy which bed when he finally met his cellmate, if Ian would have to bend to his wills and submit to some arbitrary rules. He wondered if he would ever stop feeling so fucking cold.

As he finally began to feel his taut shoulders loosen and his grip on the mattress above him slacken, he heard the sound he was already growing to hate—one of the cell door sliding back open. He tried to will some intimidation and roughness to return to his face, and as Ian turned to witness whoever had stepped in, there he was.

Ian’s cheeks overflowed with heat, and his mouth felt dry as Mickey spoke to him, looking more lovely than Ian ever remembered him, his skin finding some way to look beautiful and radiant even under the horrendous cell lights. He could only utter out a short, breathy phrase of astonishment, feeling like he was watching the scene from a high and far vantage point as Mickey easily glided past him with a smile, settling onto the bed and wetting his bottom lip. He watched Ian, who was clearly still dumbfounded beyond belief, stand there, but as Ian’s body and soul merged together again, Mickey saw the relief pour onto Ian’s countenance.

With his atoms bouncing, Ian dove onto Mickey, grabbing one of his arms and pinning it beside his head. A pleased smile crossed Mickey’s face while Ian continued to stare at him in amazement even when his hand trailed up to gently stroke Mickey’s cheek. It felt like the stubble pricked through his fingers, and the same warmth poured into Ian’s body as he moved his fingertips over Mickey’s skin in a way that he had only dreamed of and longed for since their goodbye. Ian stayed frozen, almost scared to move for fear of Mickey possibly dematerializing under him, as he took in the image of his love—how his hair framed his face, how his cheeks still rose up in the same way they always did with his smile, how the lines on his plush, pink lips smoothed out with his grin, how his skin had a pleasant peachy sheen. 

He was there for Ian, to be with Ian. 

Ian’s breathing became a little labored as the nature of the situation and the fire crawling under his skin overwhelmed him in every way he could have possibly wanted. Then Mickey placed a hand onto the back of Ian’s neck, awakening the hibernating magnetic force between them so their lips could drift together. After a few seconds of shy inching at one another, Ian ducked his head down, and they connected eternally.

In that moment, they were set ablaze.

* * *

It was a beautiful day. 

The sun was nearing the beginning of its descent, the bright orange glow swimming in a flurry of colorful clouds that had been keeping it from tucking itself under the horizon. Everything seemed so much more vibrant than usual—the light reflecting off the shiny car, the white of Mickey’s jacket, the purple and yellow flowers sprinkled in the meadow, the warm undertones of Mickey's skin. Everything appeared fluorescent, bursting with life and teeming with intensity. It was overwhelming in its potency; everything felt like it was at its absolute peak, while also being comforting in its tenderness. The colors were bright and hot, yet gentle and gleaming, existing to make their skin and blood vessels feel warm and cradled—loud in appearance, mild in behavior.

Ian’s arm was looped around Mickey's shoulders, and they were sat in the backseat of their car, looking out onto the flowery, fluffy grass filled meadow with Mickey's tux jacket strewn over their laps. It was most pleasant and peaceful, a refreshing and necessary departure from the day’s disorder, the lingering heat from the setting sun caressing their cheeks and sinking into the twists of their hair. Ian kept listening for the deep sighs that came from his husband, feeling how his body relaxed and slumped under his hold more and more each time. Eventually, Mickey’s head found itself resting on Ian’s shoulder, hands gracefully laid in his lap.

Ian’s fingertips just reached Mickey’s neck, and they would occasionally dart at the smooth skin on it, sending featherlight tickles through Mickey’s body and making him squirm as the giggles trickled out of him. Ian would simply chuckle in response and press Mickey a little closer to him. The sun dipped lower, and an orange ray beamed in through the windshield, illuminating the shine of Mickey’s ring.

“This screams rom-com movie,” Ian joked when the coruscating band caught his eye.

Mickey snickered and jabbed his husband in the side, raising his head up to face him. He watched as the sly smile on Ian’s face crept up further on his side profile. Mickey nudged Ian’s cheek roughly but playfully with his forefinger, watching Ian’s head bounce away in a fit of giggles before bobbing back to meet his eyes.

“Someone said,” Ian began and adopted a falsetto when he continued, “ _oh, Ian_ , I don’t know what I’ll do without my fucking white cushion chairs and—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey burst out, accompanied with a roarous laugh as he jabbed Ian in between the ribs again with a bit more force. Ian seethed out an impish laugh from between his teeth as his hands raced to protect his sides and stomach from Mickey’s roaming but determined finger. He kept digging at any opening he saw in Ian’s limb shield. “I didn’t fucking say it like that!”

When Ian was sufficiently overwhelmed by Mickey’s prodding but still unable to fully issue a truce because of how out of breath he was from laughing, he fell over in the seat and clambered desperately for the door handle.

“Get the fuck back here, Ian!” Mickey called out with a goofy smile, falling over in the seat as well as he tried to reach out for Ian’s quickly absconding form. Ian stepped out and ran about a meter away, and when he turned back, Mickey was crawling across the seats, tossing his jacket over the console as he went. When Ian registered Mickey’s white shoes sinking into the grass, his eyes widened, and he took off running away from the car, trying his best to not put too much pressure on his injured leg.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey exclaimed, taking off right after his husband, the sounds of Ian's infectious and joyful laughter floating back to him. Mickey could feel his own tittering growing louder and the smile on his face increasing in intensity as he raced after Ian, and his lungs started to feel tight and strained but in the most enjoyable way. He was more than okay with running until his legs threatened to fall off if it meant following Ian—bright, beautiful, lovely as ever Ian—to the edge of the world.

He continued on, following a straight trajectory until Ian made a sudden turn and was running back in the direction of the car. Mickey was so focused on disconnecting his mind from his aching feet that he nearly tripped into the grass trying to stop himself, but he eventually altered his path and took off after his husband again. They were coming up on the front of the car, and in a moment of some divine athletic prowess and stamina, whose origin Mickey would never be able to trace, he sped up just enough that he was able to wrap his arms around Ian’s torso and drag himself and a yelping Ian down onto the ground.

There was a brief, laughter-filled tussle as they rolled around in the grass, listening to it crinkle and shift around under them as it matted down into somewhat of a bed for them, and though Mickey had a decent feeling that he’d win the battle because of Ian’s injured leg, Ian still managed to find a way to incapacitate him. And, not only did he get Mickey on his back, he also pinned Mickey’s hands above his head. Ian leaned over his husband, blocking his view of the sky with his body, as they huffed heavy and exhausted breaths in each other’s faces, the vestiges of their wide, brilliant smiles tugging at the corners of their lips.

“Damn, I remember you havin’ way more stamina than that,” Mickey teased in between pants.

Ian’s smile hitched a little higher, and his eyes dropped to how Mickey’s collarbones protruded out from Mickey’s dress shirt. Ian moved his hands so one palm pinned both of Mickey’s wrists, and then used his freed hand to drag his fingertips along Mickey’s hairline, down his temple, around the outer shell of his ear, and along his jawline. When Ian reached Mickey’s smooth neck, he let his fingers wander around a bit, gently wrapping his hand around Mickey’s throat, feeling how his Adam’s apple bobbed under his thumb.

“Remember you used to outrun me like it was nothin',” Mickey said lowly, his tone a mix of reminiscence and lust. The vibrations of his voice felt rough on Ian’s palm—rumbling sparks of the most comforting sound in existence. “Could lift more than you, though.”

Ian smirked and gave Mickey’s throat a delicate squeeze before sweeping his hand lower. Just the top button of Mickey’s dress shirt was undone, exposing the pale skin of Mickey’s chest, and Ian was entranced by it as if it were his first time seeing it. A reflective hum buzzed in Ian’s throat as his thumb slotted in the dip right under Mickey’s neck before sliding it along his clavicles.

Every time he saw an inch of Mickey, the parts that hardly anyone ever saw, he could feel his breath hitch into a much more shallow, awestruck flow. Every time, without fail, it would happen. Ian wondered if it’d ever stop—if his fascination with how Mickey controlled and carried his vulnerability would wane. Each time he caught a glimpse of Mickey’s chest or thighs or biceps, he wondered if the effect it had on him would dampen the next time. But, nearly a decade on and countless nights of laying side by side in various states of dress, Ian still felt the air still in his throat in just the same way.

“That was a while ago,” Ian responded with raised brows, still watching his hand glide back and forth across Mickey’s skin.

Mickey snickered. “Didn’t know I missed your eightieth birthday.”

Ian couldn’t believe he was going to listen to that warm laugh forever.

He thumbed at the second button of Mickey’s shirt until it came undone. Then he slid his hand under the fabric and across the velvety skin of Mickey’s chest, exhaling a shuddered breath as his fingertips sunk into the contours of Mickey’s pectorals. His skin was like every aspect of comfort and serenity that came from being next to a bonfire, and Ian could feel himself getting overwhelmed from the sun pressing against his back and the warmth under his hand. His breathing hastened a little and his hand momentarily stalled its movements, blunt nails digging into Mickey’s skin.

The sounds of the world drowned out, and Ian only found himself back in reality when Mickey’s hand reached up and wrapped itself around the side of his neck. Ian’s eyes shot up, and he was met with worried blue irises.

“You okay, Ian?” Mickey asked as he stroked his thumb on the hinge of Ian’s jaw.

Ian’s shoulders slackened, and his breathing became more even. He raked his vision over Mickey’s face and was so wonderstruck by how beautiful he was. Mickey was beautiful in every iteration of himself—tired, just waking up, relaxing, working, contemplating, inebriated, giggly—but there was something about the fleeting nature of a wedding day that shot his beauty up to the apex. He looked ethereal, like every separate facet of his beauty molded together to make him look indescribably gorgeous for the most special day of their lives. It was as though those various aspects were waiting _for_ their wedding day so they could combine in a way that would take Ian’s breath away more than usual.

Ian’s finger traced up to outline Mickey’s lips. “I just can’t believe you’re my husband.”

Mickey’s cheeks adopted a rosy hue, and Ian dragged his thumb to the corner of Mickey’s mouth as Mickey smiled. The sun transformed into a more pink and maroon glow, and Ian couldn’t help but lower himself onto Mickey’s inviting, spectacular grin. He cupped Mickey’s cheeks in his hands as their lips connected over and over again, apprehensive about separating for longer than the second it took to catch their breaths. In the fervor, their foreheads kept knocking against each other, but neither of them paid any attention—they just kept latching onto each other over and over, tilting their heads in any way that would bring them closer.

Within a few minutes, which were interspersed with laughs and loud, wet kisses and Ian hobbling back to the car with his pants bunched around his knees for lube and the other tux jacket to place under Mickey, their frolicsome silliness had been replaced with desperate moans flowing into each other’s mouths and slick, yearning hands attempting to grab onto flesh. Mickey’s arms fully encased Ian’s torso, but his hands were still trying to grip onto his shoulder blades and the back of his neck, pressing their chests together so hard that it hurt.

Ian pulled off Mickey’s mouth with a loud pop and a heavy sigh, burying his face into his husband’s neck and inhaling his scent. As it flooded his lungs and sunk down as far as his stomach, Ian could feel something form in his throat that blocked his heavy, shaky breath. He tried to swallow it down, but his lips just floated up to Mickey’s ear.

“Holy fuck, I love you so much,” he panted, the sound of skin slapping against skin growing louder. Ian dropped one hand into the ground, gripping onto sprigs of grass to stabilize himself. “I can’t believe you’re fucking mine, and I’m yours forever. Holy _fuck_.”

He felt Mickey’s chest stutter under his. He continued, with pants in between phrases, “I’ve loved you so fucking much for a decade, Mick, and now we’re fucking _here_ , and—and I can’t—”

Mickey cut him off by grabbing onto the short hair on the back of his head and mashing their mouths together again, kissing him with that aching sweetness and the energy of a fever. He kept licking at Ian’s lips and into his mouth, nails digging into his husband’s scalp and dragging down the back of his neck. Ian moaned against their mouths and cupped Mickey’s jaw with a hand.

“You looked so fucking beautiful today,” Ian huffed against Mickey’s mouth in a brief moment of disconnect before pressing their lips together once more, catching the beginnings of a smile appear on Mickey’s face. He’d never seen Mickey smile as much as he did on that day. Though it started off rocky, the moments of prosperity were accentuated by Mickey’s wide grin or a knowing smirk or simper. Even when Mickey wasn’t doing much at all, the corners of his mouth seemed to be pinned in an upturned fashion, and Ian could barely contain how ecstatic it made him to see Mickey so visibly content.

Mickey tugged Ian’s hair and pulled them apart, and Ian’s hips froze flush against Mickey as he looked down at his husband, a trembling lip indicating that he was worried he’d said something wrong. He reached his thumb over to play with Mickey’s swollen bottom lip, watching it carefully for the words that came out of it next.

“I really fuckin’ love you, too,” Mickey said breathlessly, unclasping his grip on Ian’s hair to softly drag his fingertips across Ian’s neck and onto his jawline before settling onto the dip in his chin. “Loved you for years.”

That same small but bewildered grin reappeared on Ian’s face, and before Mickey could suck in another breath, Ian’s mouth was back on his, consuming Mickey’s lips with his own and resuming the rolling motion of his hips. His hold on Mickey’s face tightened, so unwilling to let him go, and Ian revelled in the heat enveloping him throughout as the realization for both of them sank in—that this was their eternity.

That was how their forever began—not with the burst of hot fireworks scorching the sky with a feverish intensity, but rather with the gentle warming feeling that came with finding the person who embodied comfort.

It was the most stellar way to end the day that neither of them thought would ever come.


End file.
